


call your bluff

by wyverning



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Canon Universe, Drabble, Flirting, M/M, masquerade balls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 07:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverning/pseuds/wyverning
Summary: The masquerade is extravagant, Damen has to admit.





	call your bluff

**Author's Note:**

> a quick little pick-me-up for one of my favorite people in the world, bron. i hope you feel better ASAP, and that these idiots in love soothe your hurt a little bit. <3

The masquerade is extravagant, Damen has to admit. The King of Patras certainly knows how to throw a celebration, and the contented buzz of upper-class conversation among the music playing throughout the ballroom has him smiling as he sips his drink.

He’s enjoying the evening, having chosen a mask that covers the bulk of his face and has fierce horns spiraling off the top of the feathered edges of its fringe. It’s fashionable without being gaudy, and unique enough that he’s caught more than a few gazes of appreciation from equally-masked men and women as the night has proceeded. 

Damen knows he stands out regardless of what facial decorations he’s wearing, though, and it tends to work in his favor. He’s vaguely entertaining the thought of finding a partner to sneak out with; it's been a few hours since he made an appearance at the ball, and he's had enough merrymaking in public. Perhaps it's time to make some of his own with a willing partner.

Torgeir and he have spoken already, Damen’s gifts delivered earlier that morning, and so he has no further royal obligations to fulfill. After the long trip traveling into Patras’ capital, he’s feeling a bit selfish.

There’s a lithe blond across the dance hall sweeping his gaze over the partiers, and the wine he's been drinking bolsters his confidence as he makes his way over. It's not like he truly _needs_ liquid courage to approach someone attractive, but it certainly doesn't hurt. It’s an act of diplomacy, he muses, which is something Nikandros can’t even argue about. The blond's hair is twisted into an intricate set of braids that rest regally atop his head, a match for the well-tailored clothing clinging to his frame. Perched upon his face is the visage of a fox, russet red fur blending with a soft, downy white. It’s hyper-realistic, and incredibly alluring.

It wouldn’t do for a neighboring king to be unapproachable at his ally’s birthday celebration, after all. 

“A minotaur,” the man says as he approaches. This close, Damen can see the soft furring of hair around the fox mask. It looks expensively made; Damen doesn’t doubt the fur is real. “Well, you certainly have the size for it. Have you already eaten your eight victims, or are you going to try and tempt me into your labyrinth?”

“I don’t actually know too much about the myth,” Damen admits. “There were so many other interesting things to learn during my schooling than about some king fucking a bull.”

A delicate eyebrow arches over the edge of a mask. Perhaps he’s offended by Damen’s crassness, though from the slight upturning of his lips, he’s more amused than horrified. “Care for a dance?” he asks, tipping the horns of his mask toward the man in invitation.  
  
Leading the man out to the open floor of the ballroom is second instinct after all of Damen’s extensive royal training. He goes through the motions, a small part of him regretting his choices already. He blames it on the wine settling in his belly, and focuses his attention on his partner. There’s no way the blond is unattractive underneath his mask: his features are all aristocratic grace and edges. Damen would be a fool to spurn him.

Their dance feels more like foreplay than anything else as the fox-faced man places his hands low on Damen’s hips and they move in synchrony to the music. He can’t help the smile that comes to his lips as they dance, lights swirling above them.

He yearns for more, but… it doesn’t quite feel right, holding this stranger under the pretense of anonymity.

“I’m quickly tiring of this,” the man says, gesturing to those dancing and whirling around them. “Should we retire? Maybe to your rooms?”

Damen looks back at cerulean eyes sparkling with mirth, and can’t do it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling away. “I should have said something sooner, but I’m actually married.” Anyone paying an ounce of attention could see the golden glimmer of a Veretian-style ring on his hand, even against his darker complexion. 

The masked man pouts, and for a dazzling moment, he looks decades younger than he must be. “That’s no fun,” he says. “Isn’t plausible deniability the point of these celebrations? You could be anyone, right now.”

Damen says, “He’s not the jealous type,” thinking vaguely of frigid weather and coupling fires and a drunken haze of arousal, “although I’m positive I would not be pleased if he were thinking about what I’m considering right now.”

“Not even for just one night?” the man purrs, adamant now that Damen might be out of grasp.

It’s a tempting offer, but Damen isn’t in the habit of changing his mind once it’s settled. He apologizes again, the repeated words sounding less authentic the more he speaks them, and presses a kiss to the man’s cheek, just beneath the edge of his mask. The skin beneath his lips is warm, and he can’t help soft, amused huff of breath as he pulls away.

“How honorable,” the man says, dragging out the syllables. They don’t sound disappointed — rather, quite the opposite. “But what kind of husband leaves someone like _you—_ ” the implication is clear as his gaze lingers on Damen’s figure “—to fend for himself at a masquerade like this?”

The words — and that _look —_ have dizzying effect on Damen. Heat sings in his veins, tempting him to bring this man into his arms and kiss him to see if his sharp words taste as condemning as the figurative venom he’s spitting. Damen opens his mouth to respond, to defend the love of his life to this man he’s considered risking it all for, but he doesn’t get the chance.

“King Laurent,” a delighted voice says from behind them, interrupting the moment, and Damen pulls away to see Torveld grinning at them both. “And Damianos-Exalted. A pleasure to see you both. It’s been too long — since your wedding, I believe? How have you been?”

"Later,” Laurent whispers in his ear, the fur of his mask brushing against Damen’s cheekbone as he solidifies the end of this flirtatious game they’ve been playing, “I’m going to show you _exactly_ how much your husband cares about you fucking me until I can do nothing but writhe and moan your name.”

And, _oh._ Damen can’t wait.


End file.
